


What you remember, what I've forgotten and what we both see in the rain

by VenetaPsi



Category: Banana Bus Squad
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Boys In Love, Friendship/Love, Heavy Angst, It's literally two in the morning when I'm posting this, Long-Distance Friendship, M/M, Moving to America, Poetic, References to Depression, References to anxiety, Storms, Sweet Ending, Thunder and Lightning, Thunderstorms, sorry - Freeform, these tags probably suck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-25 18:27:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20916566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VenetaPsi/pseuds/VenetaPsi
Summary: He didn’t remember the curve of Brian’s face, the contemplative, distant look in his pale eyes, the gentle way his body was folded around itself for warmth and comfort. He didn’t remember any of it, except for a phantom feeling of tight heat in his chest, clenched in his gut, a wash of nostalgia nearly overpowering him each time he thought of that night.The memories faded, but the feelings did not, lingering long after that night and trip had drifted to the back of David’s mind, hidden beneath layers of new ideas and experiences and meetups.Occasionally he had dreams of a silhouette seated on a porch, wind ruffled and glowing gold against the backdrop of rain. He would wake up with his heart pounding, his breath catching, with nostalgia burning through his veins like fire.





	What you remember, what I've forgotten and what we both see in the rain

The first time they sat together, silent at each others sides with their shoulder brushing, they had only just met that day. He was tall lankiness next to broader paleness, loose clothes next to fitted, tousled hair next to slicked back perfection. 

The wind was roaring, anguished and pained, the rain pouring down like steady beating on a drum and they were soundless, motionless beside one another as each watched the storm with equal enrapture. Neither he nor the man beside him flinched when the sky flashed, or when the earth rumbled deep in their bones, through the floor and into their feet. 

It was late that night, the sky ink washed and lightless, the street shining and wet. The porch was rough wood beneath the soles of their boots and the curve of their jeans; the air warm and humid around their necks and cheeks. 

The rain was cool however, gentle spray and mist that coated his hoodie and the other’s jacket, wet their hair and dampened their breath. The night was raging around them, calm within them, and he was still in a way he hadn’t been in years. In a way he’d missed. 

That night in the pouring rain, sheltered by shingles and a thin over-roof, was the first time David felt nature as a whole around him, within him, through his own eyes instead of someone else's. And he remembered the smell of steaming asphalt and muddied dirt, but not turning to watch his best friend beside him glowing in the orange haze from the streetlight. 

He didn’t remember the curve of Brian’s face, the contemplative, distant look in his pale eyes, the gentle way his body was folded around itself for warmth and comfort. He didn’t remember any of it, except for a phantom feeling of tight heat in his chest, clenched in his gut, a wash of nostalgia nearly overpowering him each time he thought of that night. 

The memories faded, but the feelings did not, lingering long after that night and trip had drifted to the back of David’s mind, hidden beneath layers of new ideas and experiences and meetups. 

Occasionally he had dreams of a silhouette seated on a porch, wind ruffled and glowing gold against the backdrop of rain. He would wake up with his heart pounding, his breath catching, with nostalgia burning through his veins like fire. 

Brian remembered a lot about the second time they watched the rain, though he remembered little of the moment itself. Instead he reminisced about the day, the chaos, the overwhelming fear he’d felt in the airport, the anxiety clawing away at the lining of his stomach, his throat. His brain focused on the negative, the bad, and so his memory had been narrowed in on how nauseous he’d felt the day he was officially moving to another country, how he’d barely kept his lunch down. 

In actuality, however, there were more lasting effects from the moment they stared out the window, the one time in the entire trip they hadn’t been desperately talking like they’d never speak to one another again.

Brian hadn’t remembered the details, the way the splatters of rain had dripped down the clear, wide panes of glass, the way the cold air conditioning of the airport felt like stormy breezes and phantom mist. 

He had however remembered the stilted air between them, the stiff, suffocating silence that neither man seemed about to open their mouths to break. 

He remembered how the tears on David’s cheeks matched the storm outside; silent and unnoticed by everyone but him. 

Brian had forgotten the guilt that had gnawed away at him. Forgotten the warmth of David’s skin when he’d hugged him tight, forgotten the rush of anxiety when their fingers slipped apart so Brian could board his plane. 

He remembered those tears however, and they were nostalgic even though he had never seen David cry. They were familiar even though it had always been David comforting him, not the other way around. 

He had nightmares in America, of sterile white light and echoing halls; clashing, deafening voices and eyes that dripped like a storm.

Brian remembered little, even as his heart pulsed with forgotten aches and hidden scars. 

He longed for home. 

The metal wire was taught and sharp beneath David’s fingers, the gentle vibrations radiated through his fingers as ringing sound echoed in his ears. 

The guitar was familiar, instinctive under practiced hands and nimble movements, though the haunted, strained melody it produced was not. Lyrics flowed easily off his tongue, low and certainly not english, the ghost of a language David had assumed long forgotten, and the measures of his song melded effortlessly with the beat of raindrops against his window. 

The sniffle in his ears caught him off guard, and his eyes fluttered open, though he had not remembered closing them. David laid the instrument down gently on the covers as soft, muffled crying flooded his hearing, and his hands reached up instinctively to cup the headphones curled atop his hair. 

They stayed in the call, David a silent presence as Brian cried, as rain poured down both in Ireland and California simultaneously and echoed throughout each empty, lonely house. 

Whispered words in the rain, a native language both men shared that passed hesitantly between them, that reminded David of gold and shadows and Brian of storms and home. 

They fell asleep together, David’s fingertips resting on the curve of his guitar and the image of Brian’s shaking form hidden beneath blankets burned into his eyes. 

When he awoke, the call was empty and his headphones were dead of battery; cold, hard, lifeless plastic.

That night soon became like a dream; haunted and floating just beyond the reach of his memory, feelings of pain and regret and empathy that he remembered so well, but words forgotten in the haze of time. 

David began to hear rolling Irish words and see tears while he slept, visions where he reached towards a being just beyond his grasp, that he woke from with broken glass ripping at his heart.

Brian watched the rain alone on an unfamiliar porch, wide and empty in storm blown Tennessee. The house was illuminated behind him, gold at his back, and the night was a darkness that stretched on as far as his eyes could see. 

The air was freezing, drenching him until he shivered uncontrollably and still he sat where the mist stung his face and the shadows chilled his heart.

The explosions of thunder and light that coincided in his bones and his ears, that ripped through him like a bomb was sudden and unwelcome, caused him to flinch violently, but it was a familiar hand that gripped his neck and held him in place. 

His phone was cold and still between his numb fingers. 

Their call had been short, rushed, and Brian remembered the strained edge in David’s voice, the exhaustion and frustration coloring his words an angry crimson, the hardness in his tone that sent a jolt of fear down Brian’s spine. 

He had forgotten about only a few days prior, the laughter when they played, the joy in David’s actions, the contentment in his own.

Instead he remembered short tempers and annoyance and sleep deprivation. 

His phone was ice that drained warm skin.

The storm was angry and cold around him and there were no street lights, no golden glow to soften the edge that sliced through him like a knife. 

Brian tossed and turned at night, unable to sleep. When it came it was fitful and dark, and each time he woke up shivering to the image of light being swallowed by shadows. 

David wrestled with one issue to the next, his life twisting and the weather degrading as winter approached and his sleep cycle diminished. 

His guitar lay abandoned at the bottom of his closet, his desk littered with energy drinks and the remnants of games. 

The dogs started crowding him, collapsing on top of him when he passed out on the couch and snuggling up into his sides when he twisted anxiously below the sheets of his bed. 

David began to cringe each time thunder rattled the windows, each time an approaching storm chilled the air. 

He remembered darkness and tears and lonely drips echoing through the house.

He’d forgotten gold and shadows and that utter entrancement. 

Brian hadn’t texted him in several days. 

The storm kept David awake.

Brian thumbed the steering wheel nervously in his hands, drenched in sweat that the frigid air conditioning couldn’t prevent. The thick, weighted breeze shook the trees and the sky rumbled ominously with warning of an approaching storm. 

His gut churned and he pressed the accelerator down too far, ran through a yellow-turned-red and thank god there were no cops, because he was shaking. 

Brian stared at the windshield as the first few drops splattered against the glass, and the echoes of a song rang in his ears and suddenly the water wasn’t on his car but in his eyes. 

He pulled over on the side of the highway, face pressed against the leather-covered wheel and a painful pounding in his skull.

His phone burned a hole in his back pocket. 

He needed to call David. 

Brian let out a shuddering breath, spun the wheel, and merged back onto the highway, his car sending up waves of spray in his wake.

David dreamt of light hair and pale skin and blue eyes, of a shoulder pressed against his and the smell of rain thick in the air, the world coated in heavy and all consuming loneliness.

Brian awoke trembling to the memory of tears in an airport and a snapping voice over the phone and horrible anxiety churning in his gut, fear freezing him in place.

David remembered whispered words and promises that escaped english and muffled sobs. 

Brian tried to forget harsh words and a tight, warm embrace and an unintentionally voiced plea of “come home”. 

David dreamed to escape the pain.

Brian kept himself awake to flee his nightmares.

They met in the rain, standing in an Irish parking lot at two in the morning. The asphalt was dark and riddled with puddles, shining bright beneath the scattered poles of light and the reflections off chrome cars. 

One dark, one light, they stared numbly, drenched to the bone and wind ruffled, and David remembered golden glows and inquisitive eyes and the soft curves of lips. Brian remembered a storm in green eyes and tears like rain and haunting melodies in native tongue. 

The storm swirled around them when they fell into one another’s arms, held tight and fast and desperately tried not to be the first to let go. Tall against broad, blue against green, and the nostalgia hit them hard. 

Whispered memories, the recollection of a porch and golden rain that passed through each other’s lips, completed each other’s sentences and then they were laughing, and it wasn’t calm it was whole, it wasn’t lonely it was joyful and there was no anxiety or pain, just them holding each other tight. 

Just warmth as they each fought off the cold air that swirled around them. 

He came home. 

The other let him in. 

They laughed, dripping with rainwater and glowing under the streetlights. 

They remembered what they’d forgotten, apart. 

Their hands linked together.

Dark and light.

The way it used to be.

**Author's Note:**

> It's so late, my hands are shaking. Here, have another story. Hope you enjoyed it
> 
> I was up writing a different fic and realized I hadn't posted this one and though "oh hey, I should do that."
> 
> I've edited this notes three times.
> 
> :)
> 
> Fuck my life


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